


To Let Oneself Be Loved

by thewitcherssongbird



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring, Cute, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Romace, Romantic Fluff, geralt x jaskier - Freeform, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22225570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewitcherssongbird/pseuds/thewitcherssongbird
Summary: The thing is, Geralt does't want to be in a relationship. He doesn't want anyone to make miserable or give grey hair to, but Jaskier thinks that's bullshit. Jaskier wants Geralt and he knows for a fact that Geralt wants him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 762





	To Let Oneself Be Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in a while and also my first geraskier fic so please be gentle with me

“Oh come on, Geralt. I can’t possibly be such a _horrific_ prospect, can I?” Just when he gets used to the silence, Jaskier starts again. Again with this nonsense.

“Jaskier,” the witcher growls in warning, even though he very much wants to say: no, you’re not, but I am.

“Oh stop growling at me, witcher, I understand that you don’t want to _condemn_ anyone to _caring_ about you,” Jaskier jabbers on in the tone of a man who doesn’t know when to give up, if only in self-preservation. Geralt is running out of ways to say no. “I know you want me. You’re just not admitting it, even to yourself. All I’m saying is that your argument is stupid and so are you.”

Geralt turns, grabbing Jaskier by the front of his shirt. “Is this the part where you kiss me?” Jaskier has the nerve to ask hopefully.

“Listen carefully, bard. I don’t want _love_ , I don’t want _romance_ and I don’t want someone worrying about me and mothering over me. I somebody to give _grey hair_ every time I get bitten by a little monster and I don’t _want_ to care about you. Is that not enough for you?” by the end of his short speech Geralt is shaking the poet, hoping the message will sink in. The road to the next town is far and Geralt doesn’t want a mournful travel companion suffering from a broken heart.

For a moment, Jaskier is wide eyed and Geralt thinks he has either succeeded or broken something he’d been trying not to break for so long, but then “But you do!” Jaskier insists, “I know you do, you daft- “ he’s struggling for an insult, “daft ass. You’re an idiot if you’ve convinced yourself that’s true. _You_ just- “

“Let. It. _Go_ , Jaskier or I will tie you to a fucking tree and _leave_ you here, don’t test me.” Geralt is glaring in that way that usually has people avoiding his gaze and walking a little faster down the street but Jaskier is glaring right back at him. They both know he’d only gag the bard at best. Geralt never _leaves_ Jaskier anywhere.

“Fine,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine, I’ll let it go. For now, but you haven’t won and I’m _not_ giving up.”

Geralt sighs but lets him go. He hears Jaskier mumbling, “dull-witted donkey” forgetting about Geralt’s enhanced hearing and then Geralt is fighting a stupid smile.

*

They reach the town without arguing again and Geralt finds work hunting down a “demon” that is supposedly haunting the woods. From what Geralt gathers, it sounds like a leshen and after some rest in an inn, they set out for information. Geralt, more than once, has to explain that the missing townsfolk won’t be returning. There is an ungodly amount of shock and tears and consoling, by Jaskier of course, but by the end of the day he is certain that the creature is in fact a leshen and he has a basic outline of its territory.

Jaskier insists he hasn’t enough coin to stay in the inn and although Geralt offers to pay for him just to keep him out of harm’s way, Jaskier refuses. They set out toward the woods the next day.

It’s dusk and their trudging through the woods, Geralt isn’t ecstatic about having to guide the bard through the darkening forest, but in hindsight it’s probably for the best that he came along. Geralt is convinced he might have gotten stabbed after one too many tragic songs about love and heartbreak. They’re heading towards a small clearing which should be a safe distance from the moster’s territory. Geralt plans on seeking out the creature the next day.

Jaskier trails behind Geralt, slowed by his limited human vision. An owl hoots close above and Jaskier squeaks and hurries to the witcher’s side. Geralt snorts. Jaskier smacks him on the arm, “Don’t laugh at me, everything is scarier when you can’t see. You wouldn’t know what with all your witchery-“ He doesn’t finish before he’s tripping over a root, Geralt catches him by the back of his shirt before he can smack face first to the forest floor.

“Watch where you’re going,” he snaps even though he know he can’t.

“I can’t, and you know it. Unlike you, I can barely see anything!” He waves a hand in front of his eyes.

“Humans,” Geralt grumbles.

He gasps dramatically. “Rude! You know what, you’re not so far from human as you would have people believe either so you shut your trap.”

Geralt turns, “and what is that supposed to mean.” Jaskier stares at his glowing eyes with crossed arms, considering his answer. A part of Geralt hopes he will say something meaningful about destiny and denial again but apparently Jaskier decides against it.

“It means either stop complaining or start carrying me, that’s what.” Geralt considers this for a moment and suddenly Jaskier yelps in surprise as he is slung over Geralt’s shoulder. “Put me down this instant you brute!” he shouts but Geralt walks on, at a notably faster pace than he previously could.

“You asked for it!”

“I didn’t mean it, you idiot. If I could see more this would be a wonderful view, Geralt, but I can’t and I do not appreciate being carried around like a corpse!”

Geralt scoffs. “I’ve seen you carry dead men like this,” he insists.

Geralt moves him into his arms, carrying him like he’s seen love newlywed men carry their wives over mud puddles and suddenly he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

For a moment the only sound is twigs breaking under Geralt’s boots and he sees a faint blush grace Jaskier’s cheeks. “Oh and now I’m a faint maiden instead of a lively corpse?” but his words hold no bite and Geralt’s heart is doing something it shouldn’t in his chest, it feels a lot like gymnastics. Geralt is suddenly glad for Jaskier’s human eyes that can’t see the flush on his own cheeks.

“Stop complaining,” he grumbles, also lacking heat and he should swing him back over his shoulder like one carries a drunkard, he should put him down, it was a joke, but in the end he does neither and Jaskier doesn’t protest.

*

The clearing is little more than a patch of treeless space. Geralt starts a fire to avoid having to deal with any animals in the middle of the night. Jaskier rolls out their bedrolls, putting his very close to Geralt’s, the witcher raises a brow.

“There’s a moster in these woods, Geralt and if it’s hungry, it’ll probably try to eat you first. You’re bigger than me.”

Geralt laughs, but doesn’t protest. It’s not such a stupid idea, at least Geralt can protect him if he’s close.

It’s dark and Geralt is heavy with sleep when Jaskier is shaking him awake. He’d crawled closer, practically into Geralt’s sleeping arms but he’s whispering furiously, “Geralt wake up, I hear something. I’m not dying for your beauty sleep, wake up. Geralt’s thoughts are muddled with dreams. He hears a creaking sound, like old tree, groaning under the force of the wind, but as Geralt’s head clears, he notices there is no wind and the creaking is no tree. The leshen roars and attacks.

*

Geralt had misjudged how big the creature’s territory was. It was dead now, charred by Igni, but as Geralt limps back to the fire, clutching a wound that stretches over his stomach like a grotesque mockery of a smile, he has to admit it did it’s fair share of damage. Jaskier is ralready hurrying to his side, talking rapidly in distressed tones. He grabs Geralt’s arm slinging it over his own shoulder and letting Geralt lean on him, not fazed in the least by the blood now soaking both their clothes.

“What happened? This never happens, not this badly, oh gods Geralt you’re losing so much blood. Was it unusually big? What went wrong? Was it because you were caught off guard? Or because you didn’t even have your witcher potion thing? How bad is it, where’s the healing potion? Oh gods Geralt too much blood, don’t die on me, you’d make such a heavy corpse, and you have to make sure no jealous lovers cut my throat mid-song.” Jaskier grips the hand that’s dangling over his shoulder, grips it like he’s the one bleeding all over.

“You can’t die yet, for heaven’s sake, you don’t _get_ to die yet,” he’s panicking, “I love you, you big, dumb witcher, I still have to convince you to- to _kiss_ me and _court_ me and- and- “ The words are pouring out of his mouth in a frenzied rush, Geralt can barely comprehend what he’s saying, it hurts and he feels light-headed. He focuses on Jaskier’s voice, it’s grounding and he clings to the sound, clings to it for consciousness because the blood in pouring from his stomach, the gash is deep.

“Not _dying_ ,” he grunts out, it takes far too much effort.

“Not yet you’re not.” Jaskier lays him down gently, rifling through Geralt’s belongings for his potions. “Which one is it? Geralt, talk to me which is the healing potion?”

“Red,” Geralt chokes out and quickly Jaskier is at his side, pouring the contents of the vial down his throat. He swallows and releases a breath, sounds like he’s been punched. Jaskier is stripping him of his layers, he feels like he can’t breathe, he’s heaving, staring up at Jaskier’s panic stricken features. He should relax, breathe but he can’t. What if something else is prowling the woods, following his trail of blood.

“Why did you stop talking, keep talking,” he commands, desperately clutching Jaskier’s hand. “I don’t want to black out. Please don’t let me, what if- what if something else- Need to be safe, you need to…” Geralt can’t control what he’s saying. His usual filter is missing and only his treacherous tongue remains, the thoughts pouring over his lips, unguarded in his panicked state.

“Yes, yes you’re going to be all right. There’s nothing else coming, you killed it, alright? We’ll be okay, just let me get off all this armor and patch you up and then you’ll be okay. Alright?” Geralt nods absently, letting Jaskier peel him out of his blood soaked clothes. He doesn’t stop talking and Geralt focuses on his voice, his panic subides

Jaskier is peeling a final blood soaked tunic from Geralt’s skin, wincing when he sees the deep gash clearly for the first time. He cleans the blood from around the wound with Geralt’s already partially bloodied tunic and some of their drinking water. The bleeding has slowed and finally it’s just the wound that’s left to clean and Jaskier stops, hesitant to cause him more pain.

“Just do it, it has to be done before it gets infected.” He takes Jaskier’s hand in his own. Gently, the poet cleans the wound and bandages it with the small kit of medical supplies any sensible witcher carries, he doesn’t complain when Geralt crushes his hand in his grip, he just holds on tighter. Geralt remembers a time when he had no friend to clean his wounds and no-one’s hand to hold, he doesn’t miss it.

Finally, Geralt is patched up as well as they can manage in the middle of the woods and Jaskier doesn’t get up. He sits at Geralt’s side and lets him hold his hand even though he doesn’t feel so light headed anymore. He feels like he can breathe again. The healing potion is taking effect and the pain is tolerable. Geralt should let the singer’s hand go but predictably, he doesn’t.

The bard is humming a soft melody, Geralt is almost lulled to sleep in the gentle light of the flames but then Jaskier says softly, “You know Geralt, you’re not doing anyone any favours.”

Geralt looks at him then and knows where Jaskier is going, they’ve had a hundred versions of this conversation over the past few months but this one feels different. He doesn’t stop him this time. “Geralt,” he continues, “you say you don’t want anyone always worrying about you, you don’t want someone to love you and care about you, you say it would be a curse…”

And it’s true, he doesn’t want to condemn anyone to wondering whether he’s still alive every time he does his job. He doesn’t want to cause anyone pain.

“But Geralt…” he sighs, looking at him in that way Geralt knows so well but doesn’t quite like. He whispers, voice soft as the gentle melody he was humming, like leaves in the pring breeze, “What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

Geralt sighs, and looks down at where their hands are intertwined on his chest. “Jaskier…” he starts but he doesn’t know what to say. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, his throat.

“I worry about you all the time, I care about you and you’re blind if you can’t see that I love you. Geralt you’re fooling yourself. You’re so scared of being a burden to me, that you’re not worth all the pain that comes with having you, you don’t understand that you are _more_ than worth any _pain_. You’re so scared of the bad parts of letting me love you that you’re not considering the good parts.”

For a minute or two, all is silent, the words are hanging in the empty space between them. Maybe it’s because he’s still delirious, maybe it’s the peaceful quiet but this time he doesn’t say what he always says.

“What are the good parts, Jaskier?” he asks instead and he knows that this is it. He’s given up and any second now some ocean of emotions he hasn’t let himself feel will break loose.

“I’d be yours, all yours and only yours.” Jaskier says it like he’s telling a story or weaving a wondrous fairy-tale with excitement in his voice. He shifts a little closer. “And you’d be mine. You’d get to kiss me when I’m annoying you and when I’m angry at you and when I’m sad and when I talk too much or just because can. You’d hold me while I sing you all the love songs I wrote for you. And you can tell me sappy things that you overheard at the market and I’d tell you I love you all the time.” He smiles in a bitter-sweet way, the way of nostalgic people. Smiles in the way one does when one has a good dream, but it’s only a dream.

“And you could stop pretending not to be jealous when someone tries flirt with me, and you could glare at everyone who’s looking at me wrong, not that you don’t already, and right after you beat up some idiot like you always do for me, you’d get to fuck me because I’d be yours and you’re just dying to.”

Geralt snorts, but he’s right. He is dying to.

“And _I_ would write you love songs and when I sing them in the tavern you’d know that they’re for you. I’d make you carry me over the mud in the road and when I see a flower on the side of the road I’d stick it in your lovely hair, hair that I washed the night before. I will get to wake up in your arms every morning, and kiss you when you’re being an idiot. And I’d smile just because I _have_. you. I’d whisper filthy thing to you when you’re talking to someone important and then you’ll pretend to be mad at me but actually you’ll just want to do all those things. And when I’m bathing you I’d kiss you until you pull me into the water with you.

“And I’d laugh with you and talk with you and tell you all the nonsense I think about every day and you’d sit, just listening to me and eventually you’d probably be bored to sleep but I’d love you anyway and I’d know that you’re always listening when it’s important because you always do. And the best part is that we’ll always come back to each other because that’s what lovers do.

“There are so many wonderful things about loving someone, I wish you’d see that. I wish you’d just let me show you, just let me love you.”

He falls silent. Geralt is stroking his thumb over the back of Jaskier’s hand. “But I’m sure you’re delirious and when you wake up again you’ll be back in your right mind.”

“I’m not delirious.”

It’s so quiet Jaskier almost doesn’t hear him, so quiet one might have imagined it. Geralt brings up his hand to gently cup Jaskier’s jaw. He moves closer until their lips are an inch apart, he murmurs, “Perks of being a witcher, I heal quickly.” Jaskier isn’t moving. His eyes are closed as though he’s scared the moment will break. “I think you win.” 

And then they’re kissing, it’s stupidly sweet and soft like first kisses are supposed to be. Finally, finally, their lips are connected, their hearts are connected and their souls are connected and Geralt’s walls crumble and collapse and it feels like all the pieces falling in place, like the world is right and it feels like destiny. And that, Geralt thinks, is because maybe it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated!


End file.
